Some years ago, I posited the need for a 51st State, and it seemingly sparked to interest.  Allow me, to begin with a history lesson.  Look closely at this 1824 map.  Yes, Mexico owned all of this land, and through wars and treaties part of it became US states.

To me, it makes cogent sense to offer Mexico the opportunity to be the 51st state for the following reasons:

• It is rich with natural resources.
• It has numerous ports, where goods could be easily transported in and out.
• Its vast coastal line and beaches are beautiful.  A tourism Mecca!
• The average Mexican is extremely motivated with outstanding work ethics.
• To the average Mexican, family is everything.

Of course, Mexico is fraught with corruption.  Its government preys on its people.  Minimum daily wages are deplorable. Drug cartels are the true rulers. Its public school system is abysmal.

Yes, my idea is fraught with problems, but what if:

• We sent in the National Guard to eradicate the cartel stronghold?
• We guaranteed democratic elections and ousted the corruptive forces in power?
• We trained and monitored their police force?
• We guaranteed minimum wages?
• We improved health care?
• We established free public education for K-12?
• We taxed them accordingly?

Then there would be no need for billions of dollar walls.  The American way would permit the vast majority to no longer live in abject poverty and to no longer pay monthly protection money to the cartels and/or corrupt law enforcement.

Of course, this could not happen without civil discourse and negotiation.  Yet, in my naivete, it seems to be a discussion worth having.  In fact, with the gorgeous Sea of Cortez only 4 hours from my casa, I’d be first in line to buy a condo in Puerto Penasco (Rocky Point.)

Perhaps, my simplistic idea is absurd.  We’d probably screw it up by trashing their culture, their heritage, and their language.  Yet, throughout America, Little Italy, Chinatown, etc. exist.  There’s no reason to decimate culture and language.  If they want to remain bilingual as the Navajo or Hopi nations, fine with me.

If you find my idea somewhat rational, write your congressional representative and senators.  Thank you.

Phoenix temperatures are soaring.  My fabulous spring garden is just several days away from death.  Even Satan, himself, has left town for San Diego.

With that being said, a month ago I inventoried my shorts in anticipation of my stay at the beach in North Carolina and the Arizona heat.  Damn.  Not one pair fit.  It seems my FitBit made me walk too many steps.  I needed to buy five new pairs to survive the summer.

Since I’m neither a golfer nor a tennis player, I prefer shorts with pockets. Nothing fancy, nothing with a designer label; I’m not out to impress anyone at the grocery store.  I went to the mall, Target, TJ Max, Ross, and searched.  Women’s sizes fell off me.  I even tried on shorts from junior departments.  While some of them fit, they also advertised more than I would ever share in public–sagging butt and thighs.  Unacceptably, short.  You ladies, know what I’m saying.

I prefer bermuda-length, shorts.  When I shopped for those, the vast majority were priced well above $30 a pair.  Help!  Time’s awastin’! Shorts are shorts.  Right?

I went to Carolina Beach with five, new pairs of shorts, which totaled less than $50.  Each day, folk would say, “Where did you get those cute shorts?”  Even when I returned to Phoenix, two grocery store patrons inquired the same.  Hey, I could have said Nordstrom or Bloomingdale. But I’m a straight-shooter.

“The boys’ department at Walmart, for $8.96 a pair.”

“But, Sue, they’re so cute with the flamingoes. I love the birds of paradise.”

Long ago, I figured out some simple truths:  shorts are shorts. The only differences between boy’s shorts and girl’s shorts are: girl’s cost more, and girl’s button right to left, while boy’s button left to right.  Now since I’m not in the habit of staring at folks’ waists,  I don’t ogle others, nor has anyone ever asked why I was wearing boy’s shorts

Of course, I’ve pricey business suits, dresses, pants, and shoes, but I’ve never been caught up in fashion trends, nor designer labels.  Certainly, by the end of summer, my size will change again, and I’ll donate my shorts to Goodwill. And until then, I’ll be honest about where I buy my shorts, and I will not advertise by saggy butt!

Yes, I realize I’ve not blogged in weeks.  Cut me some slack, between end of the year school district business, graduation, and a wedding.

As many of you know, I’ve been blessed with household repairs for the last eight years.  A month ago, I had to have to major household repairs, including a new air conditioner and a hot water heater.  Yesterday, I was boiling a pot of chicken breasts for my epicurean dogs, and the cooktop stopped functioning.  Since the cooktop is less than two-years old, I attempted to trouble shoot.  I threw the breaker and reset.  Nothing.  I waited hour–nothing.  The timer worked, the burners didn’t.  After a variety of expletives, I went off to Home Depot to buy another.

The salesman was uninformed and bumbling.  He told me it would be three weeks before it could be delivered and installed!  Three weeks of grilling!  Unacceptable. I wanted to cry.  I went to major appliance store, selected the model, and asked when it could be delivered and installed.  MONDAY!  Hooray.  Plus, his quote was less than that of the Depot.  I was happy.

Several hours later, as I was removing zucchini bread loaves from the oven, I managed to bump one of the cooktop burners.  Holy s#@t!  The burner turned on.  I turned on the other three–damn!  They all lit.  A little, evil voice whispered in my ear, “Cancel your order, Sue.”  For some reason, I didn’t.  I turned on each burner again. Dead.

At dinner time, I longed for fried zucchini.  I turned on the burner–it worked!  I began to fry the vegetable.   Halfway through the process, the burner died.  By the now, I was either nuts or the dastardly cooktop was haunted.  Haunted by some evil elf who takes great pleasure in twisting my sanity.  Had the neighborhood Catholic Church not burned down recently, I would have gone in search of holy water to rid my casa of this despicable spirit.

Currently (no pun intended), all of the burners are working.  Yet, I know this appliance is haunted.  It’s going to live with Jesus tomorrow AM.

My alternative title:  High School Graduation: A Tale of Two Schools.

In most Phoenix area high schools, graduation is scheduled before Memorial Day.  For many of our students, the event marks the end of their formal, education.  It is a celebratory experience for not only the kids, but for their families and friends.  And since I’ve just finished steaming my gown for the 19th time, I find myself in a quandary about the intrusiveness of adults and their righteous rules. (Remember, students must buy their own caps and gowns.  Their property, not ours.)

Case #1: A valley high school in the Dysart School District intends to ban a student for decorating her cap and gown to with beads and feathers to reflect her Sioux heritage.  However, the school district’s policy dictates that caps and gowns cannot be decorated, and only “school-approved, academic regalia are allowed.”  Then, the district added, ” We appreciate the desire of students to honor cultural traditions….traditional clothing or footwear under the gowns are welcomed.”  In short, one tradition has been overridden by another’s culture or tradition.

Case #2: On Friday, I met with the principal and her assistant at the high school where I’m scheduled to present diplomas.  Now, this is a large, diverse high school with students from a variety of cultures.  Their number 1 graduate immigrated from Russia at the onset of her freshman year; she knew NO English when she entered.  Additionally, this high school has the International Baccalaureate program, which attracts superstars.

“Dr. Skidmore, I must tell you when I became principal a year ago I was very uncomfortable with the graduation rules–as uncomfortable as many of our students.  This is a celebration for kids.  Almost two dozen will be the first member of their family to graduate.  Our community prides itself on inclusion.  I met with student leaders, and the rules were changed.  In short, no graduate can insult, disparage, or display profanity. Drugs, or alcoholic messages are prohibited.  But we permitted the decorating of caps and gowns to reflect culture and tradition.  Students had/have the opportunity to buy stoles that are representative of the Native American or the Hispanic culture. Students may wear leis and other jewelry.  In short, we adults worked collaboratively with our kids to permit reasonable self-expression.”

While some of you may be appalled by my reaction, I’m thrilled by these adults who recognize and applaud student diversity.  What appalls me is the current head of our nation openly mocking a disabled news reporter, name calling senators and representatives, and bragging about evading paying his taxes. What appalls me is his latest demand for teaching Bible classes in the public schools, when the US Constitution clearly delineates the separation of church and state.  After all, he certainly does not adhere to the Ten Commandments.

Yes, I’m 70 years old.  I’m not a flaming liberal, nor a rabid conservative.  I’m just an old broad, who believes in our children.  And I will be very proud to shake their hands when they cross the stage, regardless of beads, feathers, serapes, or leis.

Students and teachers at The College School for brochures and the website.

Boy Talking To Male Nurse In Emergency Room

Even though I’ve been a teacher in some capacity for my entire professional career, I’m not trolling for accolades.  Curiously both Teacher Appreciation Week and Nurse Appreciation week began Monday, May 6.

As many of you know my eldest recently earned a doctorate from Rush University in Nurse Practice.  At our celebratory dinner, she thanked her high school biology teacher for igniting her fire.  Now this particularly teacher left our school district years ago, but through the internet I found him and emailed him.  Why? To thank him, duh.

All of us have experienced teachers who made a difference in our lives; yet few of us make the effort to say “thanks.”  Andy Rooney once quipped: Most of us end up with no more than 5 or 6 people who remember us. Teachers have thousands of people who remember them for the rest of their lives.

Take time this week to thank a teacher and/or a nurse.  Trust me.  It will be appreciated.

On Saturday night, I noticed a creature swooping and looping in my family room–a bat.  Now, unlike my youngest daughter who experienced this several years ago, I’m not afraid of them.  Bats were common visitors at my grandparents’ farm house.  I knew what to do.  Swat it down with a broom and toss it outside.  After a number of my futile attempts, the bat disappeared.  Thank God. He must have fled through the open patio door.

No such luck. He returned on Sunday night.  Armed with my trusty broom and swatted at the air; I worked myself into such a frenzy!  Drenched in perspiration, I went to the guest house for my cabana boy.  He was a great high school baseball player, perhaps he could swing a broom.  Since I know he has aversions to spiders, wasps, and snakes, I asked, “How do you feel about bats?”

“They’re ok. They eat bugs.”

“Great, come with me.”

For the next fifteen minutes, with our brooms in the air we swatted.  Had someone been videoing us we would have won a prize.  Finally the baseball player made contact, but the bat still swooped.  Moments later, he hid behind the painting on the fireplace.

“You stand on that side with the beach towel, and I’ll shoo it out from this side with the broom.”  Nothing happened.  I carefully peered up under the painting.  “Is that it? whispered cabana boy.

“Yes, that’s the critter.”

“It can’t be; it’s no bigger than a quarter.  The bat swirling around in here was as big as Dracula!”

Talk about a drama king. He managed to knock it down into the towel and carried it outside.  Dracula flew off into the darkness.  The crisis had passed.

Years ago, I wrote about an event I witnessed at a Florida gas station.  Given his appearance and his grocery cart piled high with all of his possessions, I surmised he was homeless.  He rummaged through the garbage–perhaps in search of redeemable cans or uneaten food, but much to my surprise, he chose a newspaper.  He carefully spread the paper across the top of the can and read.  I was awestruck and ashamed of myself for assuming he was a loser.

Earlier this week, a professor at The Ohio State University released her research on the value of early childhood reading.  In short, she found that children whom are read five books a day enter kindergarten with a ONE-MILLION-WORD advantage over children whom were not.  To me, this is powerful and rouses me to action.  As a 49-year career professional in public education, America needs free, universal public early childhood education.  Sooner rather than later.  It is incumbent upon all of us to insist! My God, if 60 of America’s most successful companies paid ZERO income tax this year, they can help  foot the bill.  Our future is at stake.

Wake up Washington.  Both sides of the aisle.  You ignore climate change and other societal issues, like health care, homelessness, and poverty.  I implore you to save our most valuable asset–our children.

Last night, I went to my ‘hood bar and grill for a high school marching band fundraiser.  (The same place I play trivia on Tuesday nights.). Now, this is third, fundraiser I’ve attended this school year; the first was for Pom and Cheer, the second was for men’s baseball.  Mama Sharen, owner of this establishment, graciously offers both her space and a light dinner free of charge to high school booster clubs and attendees.  Thus, through ticket sales, silent auctions, and raffles, the club can easily make $2-3,000 in one night!  Better gig, than selling magazines or candy bars.

Further, Mama Sharen occasionally provides other free meals.  On St. Patrick’s Day, corned beef and cabbage, on New Year’s Eve a midnight breakfast.  She readily sponsors a hole at a charity golf tournaments and just gave me some autographed, MLB paraphernalia for our school district’s Foundation golf event.  All of her generosity is done without fanfare or accolade.  Her humility brings us all the consider the pleasure of giving.

Which brings me to the second part of my blog. As the lone school board member from my ‘hood, I always try to buy at least one silent auction item to regift.  Last night, nothing really tripped my trigger, except a $600 three-hour DJ and lighting.  Of course, I had no need for such frivolity, but I thought I could donate it to a school dance.  Near the end of the evening, folk kept outbidding me by $5.  I was outraged, and right before the auction ended, I outbid by $70.  Hey, put up or shut up, right? After all, this benefits marching band kids.

Yes, the DJ went to me.  As I sat, writing a check, a young woman approached.  “I must ask, what was your motivation for aggressively bidding?  Did you really want the DJ?”  She probably was curious about what an old gal would want with loud music.

“No.  I just bought it as a donation and plan on giving it to a school event.  I’m on the school board; it was simply for kids.”

“Dr. Skidmore, I teach in one of the district’s schools.  In fact, you’ve performed several times for my students.”  Hmm.  I’ve performed for almost 9,000 students.  I certainly have no lasting recollection.

“Obviously, you must have wanted this.  Care to tell me?”

“Our twins are going to be 16 in early October.  We thought it would rock their birthday bash.”

Suddenly, my mind was flooded by Mama Sharen’s spirit.  “Then here’s the certificate.  Invite me to their party.”

She cried; we hugged.  I left.  Thanks to Sharen, I did the right thing.

Over the past few weeks, we’ve witnessed the extreme measures parents take to get their kid into a prestigious university.  While for years, top athletes entered major institutions, the admission process is now besieged in controversy.  The integrity of many colleges has been called to question.  Now, the world knows it’s nothing more than phony test scores, coaches’ greed, and downright corruption.  Why has this happened?

The college mystique.  Many gauge success by a university diploma.  They’ve dismantled career/technical education programs in our high schools.  They’ve ridiculed student interest in alternative pathways. They’ve preached the elitism of a college degree.  Let’s recall poor Olivia, who didn’t want to go to USC as a member of the rowing team; she preferred yachts!  A very popular blogger and developer of a cosmetic line, she, at 18,  was earning more than a veteran teacher.  Clearly, when the Office of US Patents declined her application on the basis of punctuation errors, it was obvious Olivia is not educated in basic skills.  She’s nothing more than a victim of privilege.

My most rewarding experiences were the years I spent in vocational education, where I witnessed first hand student success. Brand me a heretic, but not all kids need a college education.  We need hair dressers, carpenters, electricians, machinists, and mechanics.  We need creative thinkers, who can design new innovations.  Look at Bill Gates.  He’s not a college graduate!  Is he successful?  Absolutely!

By the way, my nightmare of home ownership continues.  This week I had to hire a plumber–an affable young man.  His hourly charge?  A freaking $77.00 an hour!  On a standard, work week that equates to over $150,000!  Let me assure you, Dr. Suze never earned more than $50k.

A college degree is a mystique, fueled by both lower and higher education.  It comes without the guaranteed pot of gold, and for many staggering student loans.  We must temper this educational madness and support career/technical programs before we decimate our skilled craftsmen.

PS. Olivia, I can tutor you in English grammar.  If you’re interested, message me.

As some of you know, I’m a gambler.  Sometimes a good one, and sometimes I lose.  And I’m admittedly addicted to the rush of winning.  Friday night, I went to the casino with my neighbors. After an hour of chasing “my rush,” we met in the restaurant for dinner.  I didn’t even look at menu, nor the specials, I ordered heart-attack food: chicken fried steak, mashed potatoes with sausage gravy, and corn.  Delicious, though I only ate a third of it.

We returned to the gaming room.  I’d been seated at a one-armed bandit for 30 minutes when the drink-cart girl came by.  I ordered a $5 beer and handed her a $20.  “I’ll be right back with your change and beer.”  Forty-five minutes passed–no change, no beer.  I went to the drink station and inquired.  No one seemed to know the whereabouts of my server.  Over an hour passed, and again I inquired.  My server remained MIA.

I had just returned to the slot machine I was playing when the suits descended upon me. Walkie-talkies, ear wires, etc.  Now, every gambler in my line of sight was staring at me, like I was a criminal!  “We need to see your ID.”  Really?  I look under 21?

“Why? Almost two hours ago, I ordered a beer and was told….”

“Show us at which machine you were sitting when this allegedly took place.”

“Allegedly?  Wait a minute.”  I rose, walked three machines down and said, “Here.”

With that one of my casino friends declared, “And I was sitting over there and witnessed it.”

Suit number 1 spoke into his walkie-talkie, “Check video of Bank 98 for the last two hours  and the drink server.  Yes, I do have a witness. Yes, yes, yes.”  He turned to me, “After we review the surveillance tape may get your beer and your change.”

Onlookers were surrounding me–probably awaiting my escort out of the casino.  I was livid!  I’ve watched and reported casino drifters who cash out tickets and steal others’ money.  I’ve listened to victims be told: “Your ticket was cashed, and the thief left the casino, according to our video.”  And now, I’m suspected of fabricating a story over one beer and a $20 bill.

“Gentlemen, don’t waste you time on your spy gear.  I suspect you think I made up this story.  I’m neither a liar, nor a thief.  My life will go on without a $20 and a beer.  Just forget it.”  The crowd watched.

As the suits left, my friend stopped them, within my ear shot, “That was a dumbass thing you did to Sue. For God’s sakes, she’s a gazillionaire!”  Oh, sweet baby Jesus!  While I appreciated her defense of me, she just told an outrageous lie about me!  Now, I was really a marked woman.

Shortly thereafter, my $20 and a beer was delivered.  “That will be $5.”

What was I expecting?  An apology? A bottle of champagne?  I would have settled for people to stop staring at me.  While I committed no crime, I felt dirty. My personal integrity called into question.  And no, regardless of how I crave the heart-attack, chicken-fried steak,  I will no longer donate part of my social security check there again.